


A Different Sort Of Recuperation

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [10]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 17:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: In which a shower is merely an excuse for Optimus and Ratchet to get their hands on each other.





	A Different Sort Of Recuperation

**Author's Note:**

> Rediscovered this on tumblr yesterday; I missed it somehow in my first sweep of my old blog. People used to give me random prompts for OptiRatch smut, and at the time I had so much spare mental energy I was only too happy to fulfil said prompts. I miss those days. :')
> 
> Again, this is largely unedited from when I wrote it. I have changed a couple of lines of dialogue, however; as I recall I was never quite happy with the flow of the old version.

...

A DIFFERENT SORT OF RECUPERATION

...

There was no Autobot more dedicated to the cause than Ratchet, Optimus mused as he watched the medic tidy up after a long and busy day in Main Engineering.

It had been quiet elsewhere; Optimus and the other warriors had found themselves with rare free time on their hands between assigned patrol duties. Optimus had spent his replying to various emails and browsing the political channels, keeping track of the balance of power on this young world. Which was work, technically, but a sort of work which Optimus enjoyed, deep down in his former-archivist’s spark.

Ratchet had not been so lucky. Lulls between battle for him merely meant that for a time he could focus on bringing the nonsentient sectors of the outpost up to standard for once.

It was one of the quirks of his personality that he didn’t seem to see the extra workload as being unfair, or to be resented. Dedication, Optimus thought. Ratchet always did his best for their little team, no matter that the enormous workloads he got through were always thanklessly followed by even bigger responsibilities. If Optimus was Megatron’s counterpart, then Ratchet—medic, scientist, tech support and executive officer all rolled into one—reflected no fewer than three of the highest Decepticon officers.

Optimus watched as Ratchet bent to shove a box full of various calibration tools under the workbench. He was moving a little slower than usual, but—in Optimus’ expert opinion—nowhere near the spark-deep exhaustion which weighed him down more often than Optimus was comfortable with. And if Optimus’ optics lingered a little longer than was strictly businesslike on the medic’s aft, well, a mech could admire from afar.

Ratchet, however, had an uncanny sixth sense that always seemed to know when Optimus’ thoughts veered off in thoroughly unworksafe directions. The medic revved his engine sharply, straightening and turning to glare at Optimus.

:: _You can wait until I’m slagging well finished here_ :: Ratchet snapped via comm, resting one servo on his hip in an unfairly saucy manner. :: _I know that look, and it is not going to work, let me tell you that right now._ ::

:: _Your shift ends in five minutes_ :: Optimus pointed out, using his most mild tone. :: _I am quite capable of waiting that long, old friend._ ::

Ratchet looked skyward, his field rough with resignation. Optimus knew him well enough to know that it was merely an act: the cajoling, the convincing was in deference to Ratchet’s sense of duty, which would not allow him to rest when there was more to be doing, more that he felt he should be doing, to help.

He’d given up easily today, Optimus thought as the medic threw up his hands and just shoved the last box of tools to the back of the workbench. That was promising, but also a sign that he really did need the break.

Ratchet stomped past him on the way to the hallway that led to the rest of the base, but stopped halfway, giving Optimus an arch look. “Washracks first, I think. I feel stiff all over.”

And if that wasn’t an invitation, Optimus didn’t know what it was. A slight smile creeping over his faceplates, he said, “I believe I may join you. There was rather a lot of mud on my patrol route today, and I would rather it didn’t stay in my wheels for too long.”

“You sound like Sunstreaker,” Ratchet chuckled, continuing towards the door. Optimus followed him, ground-eating strides quickly bringing him lever with the shorter mech. “Please don’t ever turn into one of him. The universe is only big enough for one ego that size.”

“Tracks,” Optimus supplied, and fought a smile when Ratchet laughed outright.

“True,” the medic admitted. “Anyway, maybe you’ve got a little wiggle room before you get that bad. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t.”

“For that, you have my thanks.” Optimus strode ahead, deftly pulling the washrack doors open. He could weather a little good-natured teasing if it helped Ratchet laugh like that more often. The medic had a pleasant laugh, or at least Optimus thought so; real and open. He’d like to hear it more often if he could.

He let Ratchet fiddle with the temperature and spray pressure, and sat down on the floor, turning his face up to the solvent and letting it splash down, washing the dust of the roads away. It funneled through the gaps between his armor plates, dripping into his core and heating him up from the inside. Ratchet padded over to sit beside him after a while, wordlessly passing him a scrubber.

“Thank you,” Optimus murmured, and went to work evicting the red Jasper mud from his wheel arches.

Ratchet sat quietly for a while, kneeling with his legs almost close enough to touch Optimus’ thigh. He made no more to close the gap between them, simply watched Optimus, letting the solvent sink into all the crevices on his own frame. Optimus gave him a quick smile: Ratchet reacted with suspiciously narrowed optics. Resisting a laugh of his own, Optimus turned back to his task.

A couple of minutes later, he shifted slightly, switching his attention to his other leg, the one closer to Ratchet. He deliberately brushed the tips of his fingers across Ratchet’s lower thigh as he reached out, scrubber in hand.

“Oh, I get it now,” Ratchet said sourly, but there was no disguising the way his EM field had rippled excitedly at Optimus’ touch. “You’re a dirty sneak.”

“I am,” Optimus agreed. “Soon, however, I will be a clean sneak, and I hope you will restrain yourself until I can reciprocate.”

Ratchet snickered, and reached out, taking hold of Optimus’ lower wheel. “You didn’t, so why should I?” He stroked the tyre rims and leaned forward to carefully prod a sensor cluster near the pressure gauge. Optimus swallowed a pleasured murmur.

“You don’t seem to be very focused on your own ablutions,” he observed, narrowing his optics and watching as Ratchet did… something that made the neural net in his wheel fittings light up like a sky at sunset. “Am I to assume that you have found an alternate task?”

Ratchet just winked at him—winked!—and leaned even further forward, licking the suddenly-so-sensitive wheel rims.

That was the last straw. Optimus surged forward, bearing Ratchet backwards and pinning his hips to the floor with one hands. With the other he eased Ratchet’s legs up and apart, caressing the panel at the junction of his legs with lazy digits.

There was heat under the metal, Ratchet’s body priming itself for pleasure. Optimus ignored the medic’s token protests in favor of mapping Ratchet’s thighs and pelvic array with his hands, slipping fingertips between armor plates to tease wires and cable bundles, following transformation seams to sensory hot spots which made Ratchet twitch, aborted motions means to grind his body up against Optimus’ hands.

Optimus paused, pressing his fingertips down lightly on the portion of the panel which, if he had his proportions right, ought to be right above Ratchet’s spike housing. “Will you let me touch your spike?” he asked.

Ratchet resisted for a token moment, looking away. After a klik or two his panel retracted, his spike extending straight into Optimus’ hands. “I hope you’ll do a bit more than just touch it,” he said, smiling loosely up at Optimus..

“Hmm.” Gliding his fingers over the white-plated head, Optimus examined it, refamiliarising himself with its contours. Ratchet had exactly the sort of spike he preferred, thick with a flared head, sensor ridges snaking unevenly up the underside while the top of the shaft was ribbed with heavy ridges which caught and teased the calipers in his valve with every thrust. Mainly grey, a similar shade to the plating on Ratchet’s hips, with white and red accents marking the underside and the very tip. Optimus wrapped his fingers around it and stroked from head to base, letting his smile grow just a fraction wider at the oath that spilled from Ratchet’s vocaliser as he did so. Ratchet’s hands clenched at the wet floor, his optics shuttering in desire.

The first time Ratchet tried to thrust up into his hands, Optimus stilled. Ignoring the way his valve clenched and lubricated behind its panel, he bent low, wrapping his arms around Ratchet’s thighs and gently mouthed the tip of the medic’s spike. Ratchet jerked, hips bucking upwards, smearing an early bead of transfluid over Optimus’ lips. “Primus, yes!”

“Be still, Ratchet,” Optimus ordered, hitching his partner's legs a little further apart. He opened his mouth, sweeping his glossa over the tip of the spike before taking the entire thing into his mouth, sealing his lips around the shaft and sucking. Ratchet moaned, a low voicing of Optimus’ name that trailed off into a simple noise of mindless arousal. The charge nodes on his spike hummed with potential energy, slightly tinny and airy to the taste. Optimus drew back a little, taking the time to tease Ratchet with a few langourous sweeps of his tongue around the head, up the underside of the shaft, across as many of the sensory nodes as he could find. He dropped his head and moved down over Ratchet’s hips, sliding it further into his mouth and running the bars of an old Cybertronian folk song through his vocaliser, flicking his glossa against the underside in little waves. Ratchet gasped, vocaliser cracking and shearing off into a much higher pitch than usual, rocking his hips under Optimus more or less in time with the melody of the song.

His overload caught Optimus by surprise, static electricity and a gush of transfluid flooding his intakes. Ratchet arched and bit off a keen, his hands suddenly on Optimus’ helm, slipping through the solvent spray as he shuddered in release. Optimus placidly held his position, humming and licking until Ratchet’s movements ceased and the electrical storm in his mouth died down. Ratchet’s servos lifted away, slowly at first.

The medic was flat on his back, optics bright and unfocused. As he caught sight of Optimus they sharpened, his slack, content expression shifting with new consternation. “You haven’t overloaded,” he said, scrabbling into a sitting position.

Optimus knelt back, still between Ratchet’s spread legs but not so close as he had been. “Indeed. How would you prefer I rectified that?”

Ratchet stared at him for a moment, blank with post-overload fuzz. Then he smiled, a frankly devious expression. “Touch yourself.”

Optimus felt a hot thrill go through his circuits as he obeyed.   

The hot solvent sprayed down, pooling around their frames. Optimus felt it around his wires, doing nothing to ease the eager readiness making his interface protocols dance.

He straightened, using Ratchet’s as a balancing aid as he lifted himself up, canting his hips toward Ratchet. He traced his free hand down the central seam between his chestplates, his spark fluttering in excitement. Arching his backstruts, he pressed his abdominal plating hard into his hand as it glided further downwards. His array panel snapped open as he rubbed his palm along the azure curve of his lateral pelvic armor, knowing how much it tended to catch Ratchet’s attention. He felt the medic’s optics on him, almost like a physical touch. Their fields mingled, Ratchet’s bright with arousal against his.

There was lubricant trailing its way down his inner thighs already, mingling with the solvent and making his fingers slip and slide as he teased the transformation seams there. The heel of his palm brushed over the outer sensors around his valve, dragging a quiet gasp from his vocaliser. He leaned forward, shifting his supporting hand to Ratchet’s thigh and shuffling closer.

“Windshield,” Ratchet ordered, his optics flashing bright. “I know you’re sensitive there.”

Yes, yes he was. Optimus lifted his attention to his chest, shuddering as the lubricant coating his fingers came into contact with his windshield glass. It wasn’t so much the sensation of the stuff as the undeniable erotic quality of the act—those were his fluids he was painting across his chest, his desire given material form. He let gravity drive his hands downwards until they stroked over his altmode windshield wipers, the falling solvent spray gradually washing his lubricants away.

Ratchet shifted, his half-pressurised spike beginning to perk up again. “I can see your valve clenching,” he observed, propping himself up on his elbows, his optics focusing on Optimus’ pelvic array. Optimus leant back a little, tilting his hips to give the medic a better view. “If I look with an ion filter I can see your charge nodes running hot already.”

Optimus hummed an agreement, working his servo down over his midsection. He could feel it, array systems pulsing the need for stimulation through his lower body, his spark cycling erratically as its charge built. His calipers cycled down and out, bereft of a presence to clutch. For now, Optimus could deny it quite easily; the longer he resisted the urge to shove his fingers in there and ride them to completion, the longer the pleasure would last.

“Needy,” Ratchet said, smiling oddly. “That’s the word.” He sat up fully, grey servos stroking down Optimus’ thighs. Optimus’ plating flared out, an invitation to clever digits to slip into the gaps between plates and tease the ready charge from his circuits. “Your valve wants, needs to be filled. It wants a spike to stretch it wide, to force it open. It needs to be taken.” He lifted his gaze to Optimus’ face. “The question is, is that what you need?”

Optimus answered wordlessly, taking Ratchet’s servo in his and pulling it to his valve entrance.

Ratchet huffed a short laugh. “I’ll take that as an affirmative.” The tip of his index finger circled the outer ring, collecting lubricant, then slipped inside to the knuckle. He crooked it, and Optimus’ vision went white with the resultant flare of electricity. “You’re incredibly responsive, you know. Slagging hot, the way I can play your sensors like this. But you want a bit more of me than this, am I right? Two, three fingers? Maybe my spike inside you, our arrays completing each other? Would you like that?”

Optimus’ spark pulsed sharper at that, Ratchet’s voice—low and frank, taut with promise—sending his interface protocols into a higher gear. “I don’t know,” he began, interrupted by a stuttered moan as Ratchet slipped a second finger into him, stretching clenching calipers wider. He leaned heavier on Ratchet’s thigh, his free hand clutching at Ratchet’s as it delved in and out of his dripping valve. The whole room was wet with the solvent spray and he could almost trick his processor into believing it was his own fluids, his arousal flooding hot into every corner. It flowed down his face, over his armour, trailing across exposed valve sensors. “Don't you think I need a little more preparation, Doctor?”

“Oh, really?” Ratchet rocked back on his heels, a sly grin on his lips. His digits slipped almost the full way out—and Optimus acted. Rearing up, he placed his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders and pushed with all his considerable weight, knocking the medic flat on his back. He shifted his legs over Ratchet’s hips, positioning himself so that no part of them quite touched—and the heated, sparking entrance of his valve hovered right above the head of Ratchet’s spike.

He leaned down, placing one hand on Ratchet’s chest to brace himself, and offered the medic a quiet, knowing smile. The digits of the other servo he slipped into his valve, one, two, three, four—the stretch of four made his exvents hiss and his hips grind down, enough sensation to erode away the upper layers of his self-control. His thumb twitched, and he would have fit that in too if it had been part of his aim here. Instead, he drew his fingers out, warm and wet with lubricant, and stroked them over Ratchet’s spike from tip to base.

Ratchet groaned and jerked his hips upwards, grinding into the touch. His fans were going, roaring as loud as Optimus’ own. “Is this the part where I beg and plead?” he rasped, hands settling on Optimus’ hips. “Let me in; I want to feel you all around me.”

“Begging isn’t what I want to hear from you,” Optimus replied, giving Ratchet’s spike one last fond caress before lowering himself, nudging the broad, blunt head against his entrance. “You were never very good at it anyway.”

Ratchet’s laugh turned into a barked oath halfway through as Optimus let himself drop, impaling himself on the medic’s spike.

Immediately there was a flood of sensory data as interface circuits connected and the energy which had collected in his array suddenly had somewhere to go. Ratchet’s own flooded into his frame, making him gasp and press down, base coding driving him to take more, all of Ratchet into him. Valve calipers tightened and slackened spasmodically, aching with the sting of a too-quick penetration. Ratchet was moving underneath him, hips rolling slowly, scrapes of his spike against Optimus’ valve lining eliciting little shocks of tactile data from his sensory nodes.

Optimus shifted, drawing his legs in closer and lifting himself a little way off Ratchet’s spike. The feeling as it slipped out past his entrance ring was exquisite, the ridged upper side catching on his calipers with every inch given. He let himself drop downwards again, slower this time, tracing the blunt pressure of it deep inside him.

“Primus!” Ratchet groaned, slamming his hips upwards the rest of the way. Optimus replied in kind, his hips grinding in little circles against Ratchet’s movements.

He let himself lean forwards, moving his hands from Ratchet’s chest to the sodden floor on either side of the medic’s body. Ratchet rolled his hips, and Optimus rose with him, lifting himself up then sinking back down into Ratchet’s thrusts. They found a rhythm, faltering at first, then gaining speed and force.

Optimus offlined his vocaliser and let his body and code drive him, turning his face up into the warm spray. Distantly he was aware of the words running through his voice, low, desperate pleas and exhortations for Ratchet to go faster, stronger. Their plating clanged, muffled by the damp air; Ratchet’s pelvic frame slammed against his as the medic sheathed himself inside Optimus as deep as he could go.

Ratchet cried out and overloaded, field and body rippling with the energy of his release. Transfluid flooded into Optimus, hot and fulfilling, but not quite enough.

He kept moving, rocking, riding Ratchet as the medic shuddered through his climax. The Matrix’s extra systems and dampers had saved his life many a time of the battlefield, but they made it an exercise in frustration to overload.

Ratchet reached up and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down mid-thrust to kiss him, rough and feral. He was moving with purpose now, long, achingly satisfying strokes that scraped against as many of Optimus’ sensors as he could, aiming for the angles that experience knew would have Optimus writhing in overload within minutes. Their glossas met and tangled, sliding against each other with an intimate flavour that made Optimus’ spark swell, his affection for Ratchet overflowing through his field.

Something sparked inside him. His valve clamped down, rippling hard. Electric bliss exploded outwards from his array, channeled through his spark and from there into every limb, every part of his neural net. For a moment he plateaued out, every sensor in his frame taut with humming ecstasy, caught between the upswing and the down.

“There we go,” Ratchet said, lips grazing over Optimus’ cheek vent, the touch strangely clear. He gave one last hard thrust, and Optimus tipped over the edge.

...


End file.
